


never stop the calling of a challenge

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Modern AU] Jack turns to see a woman clad in an impeccably tailored suit, and heels just high enough to skirt with the line of propriety. Her lips are bright red, her skin pale, her dark hair sleek and bobbed, a shiny cap upon her head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never stop the calling of a challenge

**Author's Note:**

> A series of vignettes that take place in present-day. There's no reason this should exist, and yet it does. Title comes from "I'm Not Afraid of Anything" from Songs for a New World

It starts with a body, as it always does. Pale eyes, limpid with death, staring, unseeing, at Detective Inspector Jack Robinson as he kneels over the body. 

“Do we have a name, Collins?” he asks of the nervously fidgeting officer behind him.

“Not yet, sir, but we’re looking into it,” Hugh Collins answers, taking pictures of the crime scene on his phone to e-mail to the precinct later.

“Why not give John Parry a try?” a cool, feminine voice asks. Jack turns to see a woman clad in an impeccably tailored suit, and heels just high enough to skirt with the line of propriety. Her lips are bright red, her skin pale, her dark hair sleek and bobbed, a shiny cap upon her head. “Phryne Fisher, friend of a friend of the deceased, or something like that, anyway,” she says, sticking out her hand towards him. Her accent is sharper, posher, and Jack can’t quite place it as he rises to her level. He takes her hand, noting her firm grip and smooth palms. 

“Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, Jack to most.”

“Jack, then,” and suddenly her voice is warmer as her hand slides from his grasp. “My aunt overheard at tea for whatever board she’s signed up for now that John Parry hadn’t been seen since yesterday morning, and he’s known for going out on the town, constantly tweeting his whereabouts, posting photos. I’m sure you know the type. But they didn’t seem to think it was a murder -”

“Who said anything about murder?” Jack cuts in. Now that she’s said the name again, he feels he does recognize the victim, that he may have seen a photo or two.

“I admit that I have the upper hand, knowing some details about John that you may not, but don’t play me for a fool. There’s slight bruising on his neck, his shirt has a tear, he’s only half-dressed, and I can hear his phone buzzing with notifications from here. He’s also in the kitchen, a place where it’s said he normally doesn’t set foot, preferring to leave that to wait staff and caterers, so it’s clear that there’s _something_ out of the ordinary going on here.”

Her frank appraisal of the situation catches Jack off guard, even as she moves to stand next to him, looking down at the victim. “What is your background, Miss Fisher?” he asks, surprise evident in his voice.

“Phryne, please. There’s not much to tell. Independently wealthy, bored socialite. That’s what the tabloids will tell you, at any rate.” Her airy brush off of the question only intrigues him more, as does the whiff of her perfume. Her suit does nothing to hide the feminine figure beneath, and, in fact, he’s almost sure it’s designed to emphasize it. There’s something slightly dangerous about Miss Fisher, he can tell.

She moves from his side, going to the buzzing phone, and has already keyed in the password before he can say anything.

“I thought you said you were a friend of a friend. That doesn’t seem like it would make you privy to the password on his phone.” He’s suspicious of her, of her ease around a dead body and her control over the crime scene.

“It was his house number, Jack. Lucky guess. I assure you if it was his birthday, I wouldn’t be looking at his text messages now.” She’s flicking through with practiced ease, stopping every once in a while to read a line or two. “Mostly just people wondering where he is. Not unusual, for a man who’s known to never miss a bar opening.” 

“There was an opening last night?” Jack feels off-kilter in his own investigation. Collins is standing behind them, his mouth slightly open, and Jack wishes he could find something truly impressive to say, so that his protege would close his gaping maw.

“I mean, nothing to write home about, really, but John did like any excuse to run up a high bar tab and collect the numbers of eligible women. At least that’s what I hear.” She smiles at him, and Jack feels his throat constrict slightly. They are standing too close.

And then he hears himself say, “Aren’t you an eligible woman, Miss Fisher?” Her mouth twists at the continued use of her last name, but he can tell she’s not quite upset. 

“Some would say that. But I’ve never met John Parry, so I’m not sure where I fall.” She’s leaning ever so slightly closer to him and Jack backs away as gracefully as he can. Hugh Collins clears his throat uncomfortably, and Phryne drags her eyes from Jack’s face to meet the face of the young constable with a smile before moving away as well. 

“I’m sure you’ll want to check under his fingernails for signs of a struggle. If he was strangled, which is certainly how it looks to me, he might have grappled with the killer and left us a clue!” She tosses the words over her shoulder as she leaves them behind.

“Thank you for that valuable insight, Miss Fisher,” Jack responds, and it is only after she’s left that he realizes she used the word ‘us,’ including herself as part of his investigating team. He isn’t sure he minds.

\- - - 

She feels drawn to him, the stoic, serious inspector. She wants to make him smile, make him laugh, make him happy. She wants to muss his hair. She knows he’s drawn to her, too. But, then, most men are.

She’s never dressed to impress the men in her life, but she knows that the clothes she buys leave men staring in her wake, and it’s not a bad side effect. She enjoys the effect all the more when it’s Jack, because she thinks he doesn’t allow himself to stare, or even notice women. She’s gotten under his skin.

It’s a place she enjoys inhabiting. It means she gets to help solve murders, because Jack quickly learns it’s best not to say no to her. It means she has a confidante, having only recently relocated to her childhood home. She enjoys the distance the ocean provides, but can’t help but feel the separation keenly. 

She tells him about her sister, long missing, and Murdoch Foyle, rotting in prison. She’s pushing for the case to be re-opened, for the advances in science to finally be used to solve the mystery of Janey. “DNA testing, Jack. Fingerprinting. Dredging up old phone records. _Something_.” She knows she’s just listing things she’s seen on TV shows, but can’t help but feel like there has to be something that will give them a break in the case. 

“Miss Fisher,” he says, and she can feel the pause, can feel him waiting for her to correct him, waiting for her to ask him to use her first name. But her emotions are high, and she can’t summon her usual pep to riposte. He walks around his desk, and she watches him with slightly watery eyes. But she can feel the solidity of his presence, and knows that he is being there for her in the only way he knows how. “We’ll try. There’s always something to try, you’re right.” 

She takes his words for what they are, a peace offering and sags slightly as the tension leaves her. And then her phone rings, and she answers it, her tone sunny and bright as though it wasn’t only moments ago that she’d been pleading with him to find the body of her dead sister.

She leaves, knowing her perfume will linger long after, and can imagine Jack sitting behind his desk, trying to capture her fragrance even as it dissipates in the air. Her night has been planned, and she loses herself in loud bass music and flashing lights, in the feel of strong arms at her waist, and tries to forget that she wishes they were someone else’s hands.

\- - - 

She has what she calls a “companion,” but what Jack would call a roommate. Hugh Collins has become quite taken with the young Dot, taking her out to see a movie or for dinner. Phryne encourages the sweet romance, cataloging every encounter between the two with a watchful and amused eye.

“I was never that innocent,” Phryne remarks softly to Jack as Hugh places a chaste kiss on Dot’s cheek before taking his leave for the evening. Jack looks at her with an arched brow; he doesn’t think anyone would mistake Phryne for innocent. Her blouse dips daringly low, her painted mouth almost always quirked in a smile. She is the definition of dangerous, of risque. 

“I once was. Marriage, and subsequent divorce, took care of that,” Jack tells her, because it’s true, and because they know each other well enough by now that he doesn’t have secrets from her. Phryne knows about Rosie, and doesn’t care. Jack thinks that Phryne probably hasn’t spared Rosie a single thought, except for how her existence affects Jack.

She bumps his shoulder slightly with her own, never one for delving into deep emotions unless absolutely necessary. Her phone vibrates in her pocket and Jack wonders if it’s a date. She gives it a glance, and swipes to ignore the call. Jack feels a pulse of pleasure, that whatever it is wasn’t as important as standing here, next to him.

They sit on her couch, each taking an opposite end. She swings her feet up, nestling them under his thighs. It’s a gesture she’s done before, further cementing her level of comfort with him. She sleeps around with whomever she likes, and she may gad about town with a different man every week, but these casual moments of intimacy are for Jack, and Jack alone. They both know it’s something special, even if they never put a name to it.

Nothing they do together seems to lend itself to being named. How she always manages to be around when he’s investigating a murder is beyond him, but she is there, a surety in his life. She must know everyone in the city, because every victim is a friend of a friend. She brings with her panache and flair, two things that go a long way in convincing people to talk to them. It’s a useful talent that he wouldn’t have missed if she wasn’t there, but is something he is increasingly grateful to have.

They’ve gone beyond simply seeing each other when cases bring them together. They go out for brunch on the weekends, or long drives in the evenings, when neither one has a previous engagement. He’s never had a female friend, never had a woman to use as a sounding board. It’s unusual, it’s different. He feels sure that she’s never experienced this kind of friendship either. 

And yet, as valuable as this friendship is, he wishes there were more to it, wishes that he was the one she would flit away for, wishes that he was the one on her arm at parties and gallery openings. He thinks she knows that, but she’s not willing to make the move. 

The companionable silence is nice, however, and Jack will take whatever part of Phryne Fisher that she’s willing to give.

\- - -

One of her successes, she feels, is that she’s gotten Jack Robinson to send text messages. He is agonizingly slow, making sure that there are no typos, refusing to be rushed, refusing to use abbreviations. “I’m a grown man, Miss Fisher,” he says as she pushes her chin into his shoulder, trying to get him to write a simple “brb” to Hugh Collins as they leave for lunch.

“Grown men don’t have time to be texting, abbreviations are a must!” She doesn’t really care one way or another, it’s more the joy she feels at making him succumb to the trivialities of modern culture. It’s part of her ongoing pursuit to see the man in front of her less buttoned up.

After what feels like an hour, he finally presses send, and they make their way to the nearby diner. Her hand automatically finds its way into the crook of his elbow, as though it was made for that space. She dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes; she’s never believed in soulmates, or meant to be.

And yet, with her stoic inspector, she feels there is something different, that she could almost be convinced that there’s something beneath their friendship, something that scares her too much to unearth. There’s too much at stake if it goes awry, and she knows, with her record, there is a good chance it will go awry. But all the same, she recognizes that there is something there that, someday, they might have to face.

The waitress at the diner knows who they are, knows what they like to eat. It’s easy, eating lunch here. There’s no danger of running into someone Phryne has had a past encounter with, something that has happened on more than one occasion when they venture out together for dinner in the high end of town.

There’s a tightness she senses in Jack when it happens, but it disappears almost as soon as she sees it. She supposes he’s telling himself that he has no claim to her, and it’s funny to her that he doesn’t realize the claim he _does_ have. If he were to say the word, she knows that she would fall into his arms, and she’s simply waiting for the day when her inspector finally gives into the temptation.

They’re both being smart, neither of them giving into whatever it is between them. They both know that what they have now is special too.

\- - -

Somehow she’s convinced him that they should go undercover at a club. He feels wrong-footed and old, but her smile when he appears in front of her in jeans and a polo helps assuage some of his discomfort.

It hasn't been long, that she's been inserting himself into his cases, but he finds that it seems as though he’s never been without her presence. She’s become his accomplice, his girl Friday (though some days he feels it’s more the other way around). She makes his work fun, in a way it hasn’t been in quite some time. 

His eyes linger on her too-short dress, all sparkles and glitz, and knows that he won’t be the only one who can’t keep his eyes off her. She catches him staring, but instead of offering a reprove, she merely wallows in his gaze, returning it with one of her own as she unbuttons one more button on his shirt.

“Let your hair down a little, Jack,” she says, her voice coming out a little lower than usual. There are always these moments, when they’re alone, where they are too close, too intimate, too _everything_ and Jack never quite knows what to do. And so he lets her unbutton buttons and ruffle his hair, and slip her arm through his, pretending that she needs him to keep her steady on her impossibly high shoes. 

As they walk into the darkened club, it seems the sequins of her dress are bouncing in time with the pounding bass, her whole outfit designed to be in movement. 

He should’ve guessed she’d make him dance, but he’d let himself forget that clubs weren’t only places for seedy drug deals and prostitution. There are couples everywhere, no distance between them at all and Jack feels suddenly as though being undercover with Phryne is altogether more dangerous than confronting criminals. She draws him out to the dancefloor, telling him they need to be able to scope out possible suspects, and he lets himself be persuaded.

But her hands have drawn his to her waist, settling them at her hips. Her fingers then trail up his arms to twine at his neck. He feels his Adam’s apple bob, and knows that she notices. Her shoes put her at eye level with him, and he feels all the more appreciative of that sartorial choice. The music doesn’t require anything but rhythm, and as they move together, Jack is almost grateful that this is the first time they’re dancing together, where nothing more is expected of him than keeping pace with the beat.

Later, they’re ensconced in a semi-private booth, comparing their notes from the dancefloor. She lists off several suspicious characters, and he wishes he had more details to offer, but knows he was too distracted by the woman in his arms. 

And suddenly, she is very much in his arms again, her legs straddling his, her mouth closing over his before a shocked, “Miss Fisher” can escape his lips, and he is frozen in shock. And then her voice in his ear: “Play along, Jack.” He snaps into action at the order, his hands skating up her back, his mouth on her neck. “There’s a man at the entrance now,” she whispers breathily and Jack knows she’s as affected by this as he is, “and I think he’s got a gun. Don’t be obvious.”

He pulls her back slightly to glare, as he always does, when she offers advice to him that any police officer worth his salt would know. She only grins and wipes her lipstick from his mouth, her smile widening as his tongue darts out to taste. 

“We’re on a mission, Inspector,” she warns as her hand lightly caresses his jaw before dropping to her side. She’s still on top of him and his hands have nowhere to go but her hips, a position they seem to be used to after this evening. 

They sit like that for a beat too long. He knows her reputation, he’s found himself looking in the tabloids since their first meeting, always searching out her face, always finding it with a new man every time. She isn’t shy about her activities and he can at least respect that. 

She pulls away first, as she usually does. She seems to recognize that doing anything further, outside of the excuse of an undercover operation, could compromise the relationship they’ve built. She settles next to him, still closer than perhaps society would expect from two friends, but it’s the distance they’re accustomed to.

\- - -

She’s been chastised by Jack’s boss, forbidden from entering crime scenes. Her natural inclination, and one she gives into all too often, is to rebel against orders. She still shows up, after hearing through the grapevine about a murder at a five-star hotel. Jack is in the lobby, talking with the night manager when he catches sight of her. She smiles a greeting even as he disengages from the harried employee to head her off before she can get into the elevator. “Miss Fisher, wait!” he calls, and she laughs, knowing he’s playing his part, knowing that he’ll call her Phryne some day.

“Now, Jack, how do you know I’m here to see you? I could have a prior engagement!” She’s lying and she knows he knows it. Her “prior engagements” have dropped off as of late, and she’s finding more reasons to stay in with Jack. It’s dangerous, new territory, and they’re both unsure of the terrain.

“Just turn around before you get me into any more trouble.” His hands go to her shoulders to turn her around, but she ducks under them and presses the button for the elevator. The doors slide open almost immediately and she’s on the elevator, and Jack is helpless to do anything but follow.

As soon as the doors close on them, Phryne presses every single button on the elevator and Jack groans, immediately realizing there’s some other plan afoot. The elevator begins to rise, as does his exasperation. “Dot’s around here somewhere, isn’t she? You’re just the distraction.” She smirks, knowing her brilliant detective would have it figured out in no time. 

“Yes, but what a distraction I am,” she murmurs, her face close to his, her breath on his lips. The doors ding, opening on the first floor, but the elevator’s occupants are too caught up in each other to notice anything else going on around them. She’s remembering the night in the club, using their undercover mission as an excuse to be closer to Jack than she’d ever dare to be under normal circumstances.

But they are close now, and she’s waiting on tenterhooks to see what he’ll do. And she can see the indecision in his eyes. But something changes, and his mouth is on hers, and she knows he’s enjoying his distraction. Her hands find their way into his hair and she enjoys mussing it. 

Several floors later, the doors open and a housekeeper coughs slightly as she boards. Phryne and Jack disentangle, a slight blush tinging Jack’s features. She feels no shame, letting her hand find his, their fingers intertwining. 

“ _I_ was forbidden from entering a crime scene, Jack, not my companion. I’m sure Dot will perform admirably. All she has to do is take a few pictures, make a few notes. Nothing obtrusive at all!” Her voice is pitched lower, an excuse to keep the distance between them minimal. She is enjoying his hand in hers, enjoying how it feels to be next to him in this brave new world they’ve created together, with a population of only them.

In the end, Phryne is allowed to help Jack with the case after all, but she almost wants to send a thank you to the chief for banning her, allowing her to be the distraction.

\- - -

Her recklessness scares him, her wild abandon is terrifying, her love of life electrifying. And yet, he is grateful for all these things because without them, he would be nursing whiskey alone, solving crimes alone, going home alone.

Instead, she has recklessly brought him to her house, undressed him with wild abandon, shared her _joie de vivre_ as her hands explored his uncovered skin. He feels alive, feels awake, feels whole. She has completed him, somehow, when he didn’t even know anything was missing.

Her mouth is hot on his chest, her fingers dancing over his flesh, her body pressed against him like a second skin. As she moves lower, her lips teasingly hovering over his erection, he’s suddenly aware of just how long it’s been since he’s been with a woman.

“Phryne, later,” he says, drawing her up, their bodies sliding against each other as he settles over her, his hand finding the apex of her thighs and making her convulse slightly as he strikes just the right cord. He thinks it’s the first time he’s said her name aloud in her hearing but neither of them have the patience to think about that as he slowly slides into her. The way she breathes his name is something that will echo in his ears forever, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever hear it the same way again.

She smiles a slow, sexy smile as she undulates beneath him, setting a tempo that he follows. She always leads, it seems, and he is more than content to let her have the control, to see where he fits into her plans. He knows she’ll always make room for him. What they have is unique, what they have is different. They are a part of each other and they were even before he’d pulled her sweater over her head or suckled at her breast.

There is nothing to say when they’re both spent. They both know what’s unsaid between them, they know each other’s thoughts as well as they know their own. Phryne lays on her back, staring at her ceiling, her hands laying flat on the mattress. Jack turns on his side to watch her, sees her eyes flutter close, a small satisfied smile gracing her lips. He doesn’t think she’ll cuddle to him in the night, but he grasps her hand in his, and is content with that little bit of contact as he follows her in sleep. He would follow her anywhere.


End file.
